


World Turned Over / Fireproof

by orphan_account



Series: One More Time Again [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (because time travel), (sort of), Age Difference, Angst, Canon Compliant, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff, Getting Together, Inexperienced Harry, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not in the closet, Post-breakup, Time Travel, chicken stuffed with mozzarella wrapped in parma ham, harry is 18, louis is 28
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-05 22:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18838267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Maybe this is a hard concept," Harry snaps, whirling around to face Louis. "But just because you don't want me, doesn't mean that no one else ever could."In which Louis is lost and Harry is homesick.(A standalone AU of One More Time Again where Louis instead of Harry woke up in 2010.)





	1. World Turned Over

**Author's Note:**

> This is a standalone story and intentionally doesn't spoil any of the major plot points of One More Time Again. They can be read in any order.
> 
> There is a 10 year age difference. Louis was close friends with Harry from age 16 onward but there is no romantic relationship until Harry is 18. The story does explore complexities of navigating this gap in real world and sexual experience. I carefully wrote this so that it felt like an unqualified love story to me, but if the age difference makes you uncomfortable, this story probably isn't for you.
> 
> Same as One More Time Again, it's canon-compliant, but less so starting late 2014/2015 and the real-life tragedies in the two main characters' family lives did NOT occur in this timeline. I also changed the names of a few very minor characters who don't have intentional public personas.

"Maybe this is a hard concept," Harry snaps, whirling around to face Louis. "But just because you don't want me, doesn't mean that no one else ever could."

Louis stares at him across the hotel suite.

"What's that?" Harry demands.

Louis follows the finger he's pointing and he covers his own arm with a protective hand, feeling exposed even with the bandage on. 

"It's just a tattoo," he says.

"What is it?"

"It's nothing."

"Why did you get it, then?"

"Not every tattoo has to have some great meaning behind it," Louis defends himself.

Harry's eyes narrow but, after a long moment, he runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair and says, "Fine. But, look, it's obvious you can't even stand the idea of being in a _fake_ relationship with me, so—"

"You know that's not what I said," Louis interrupts.

"It's what you meant."

"Harry."

"No." Harry paces across the room. The dark Los Angeles skyline twinkles in the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. "You don't get to do that."

"Do _what_?"

"Act all—" Harry waves his hand. "Rational."

Louis levels him a flat look. "Love, there was only one of us snorting coke in a dirty club toilet tonight. Seeing as it wasn't me—"

"How did you even know where I was?" Harry demands.

Louis lets out a long sigh.

When he, Liam and Zayn had returned from Shamrock tonight to find Harry missing and not answering his phone, it hadn't taken long for Louis to realize where he was. 

It's probably the same down to the day. Definitely the same trip. And so he hadn't needed to call around their crew to try to figure out where he'd gone, not like last time. Instead, he'd just tiredly directed their driver through the West Hollywood streets.

Ten years ago, Louis had been terrified at finding his boyfriend alone in a club, alone in the night and high on drugs that seemed so far beyond anything the rest of them had ever tried. Alone in this scary new world that none of them understood.

It's not a new world anymore, though. It's a world Louis is well familiar with. And, if anything, it makes him even angrier at how _stupid_ Harry was being tonight.

But he might as well add tonight to the column of things he can't change.

The only part of it he _had_ managed to change was that, this time, Harry had not been alone in the middle of the dance floor. He'd been groping and snogging some stranger in the middle of the dance floor.

"You're not as original as you think, clearly," is what Louis tells him, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Well, you were the one who went off to get a tattoo without me. Don't pretend like you care."

"Seriously?" Louis demands. "Why do you think I came to find you if I didn't care?"

"I don't fucking know, Lou." Harry runs an agitated hand through his hair. "Apparently this happened before, and you didn't even _tell_ me."

"Maybe I wanted to believe you wouldn't be this stupid a second time," Louis snaps.

"Just like everything else you're not telling me," Harry continues. "Like your tattoo."

"It's just a tattoo," Louis repeats.

"I'm surprised you didn't take _Joe_ ," Harry mutters.

"McElderry?" Louis asks incredulously. "Well, I didn't take him because, for one, he's a few thousand miles away right now. And for two—"

"What makes him so much better than me, anyways?"

" _What_?" Louis says. "Your X Factor auditions weren't yesterday, Haz. You know none of that's real."

Harry narrows his eyes. "Is there anything at all you're not lying to me about?"

"I'm not lying about—" Louis starts. "Jesus. You want to know what I _am_ lying to you about?"

"I'm asking, aren't I?"

"Fine." Louis fists his hands at his sides. "Remember that first day? The day I came back from the future?"

"You mean the day I lost my best friend?" Harry says hotly. "Yeah, I remember."

"You didn't lose—" Fuck. "Fine. That day, before I told you what happened, we were stood behind the stairs, between the drying rack and the ironing board. Remember that? We were about to plan some bloody prank, weren't we?"

"So?"

"You were going to kiss me then."

Harry's mouth drops open.

"You were about to kiss me, except I stopped you."

"No." Harry shakes his head frantically. "No. How do you _know_ that? Did I _tell_ you that?"

"I know because last time, H?" Louis says helplessly. "Last time, you did, alright?"

"No."

"And then it took me three bloody weeks, but—"

"No, don't." Harry slaps a hand over his own mouth. "Stop talking."

Louis catches the tears welling in his eyes and freezes. What the hell is he doing right now.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says, chest tight. "Jesus Christ. I'm doing this all wrong." He reaches out to touch his shoulder. Harry flinches away. "Just listen—"

But Harry rushes out before he can finish.

 

 

Louis bangs on the door to the neighboring hotel room until it opens to reveal a sleepy, bleach-blond young Irishman. He pokes Niall's shoulder until he wakes up enough to listen to him.

And then Niall yawns and grumbles about being the only responsible one not getting tattoos or getting high in the back of nightclubs tonight, but, once Louis suggests ordering room service, he takes off down the hall to Harry's room.

And then, because Louis is no better at being alone than he ever has been, he doesn't go back to his own room.

"Can't believe I kept me bloody mouth shut for two years, only to blurt it out like a fucking idiot."

"I can believe it," Zayn says. "Seeing how you let it slip the other week about Harry having a boyfriend."

Louis shoots him a dirty look.

"What I can't believe is that you two actually _yelled_ at each other." Zayn gestures with his cigarette. "You're always so—"

"What? Nice? Kind?"

"Cautious."

"Cautious," Louis repeats.

"With each other, yeah." Zayn shrugs. "Lately."

Louis flops back onto the bed beside him. Zayn holds out his packet of cigarettes and Louis only hesitates a moment before taking one.

Harry hates that he smokes and has started a one-man crusade to make him quit. Well, two-man, if Liam's judgemental looks count.

Louis had tried to tell him that he'd smoked in the future, and that Harry hadn't tried to make him stop. But Harry had argued, _At eighteen, Lou?_

He'd defended himself by pointing out that Zayn hadn't started smoking this early, either, last time. Though Harry hadn't been all that impressed by that argument.

Neither had Liam, for that matter.

Harry thinks it means more than it does. But sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette. A tattoo is just a tattoo.

And Louis doesn't think he's been a terrible influence, overall, for the boys. Plus — he glances up at the ceiling as he catches the lighter Zayn tosses over — at least he'd taught Zayn how to disable the smoke detectors in American hotel rooms. 

"Lately," Louis repeats, even though it's been a minute since Zayn said it. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"He hasn't even asked you any more about that boyfriend, has he?" Zayn says.

Harry hasn't. It's been odd. Harry's not usually one to let go of something like that. But he hadn't said anything at all until the pretty heavy hints tonight when he accused Louis of lying.

Coke had always given Harry an agitated kind of high. The last thing he needed was Louis feeding into that. But tonight, well — Louis supposes it had been a long time coming.

Maybe they have been too cautious with each other lately.

But sometimes when a random girl on a random New York street asks you _if you could do it all over, would you_ , you say yes without considering that it might not be a hypothetical question.

When he'd woken up in 2010 in the middle of live shows for the fucking X Factor, he hadn't known quite what to do with this little sixteen-year-old Harry Styles. Now, going on two years later, he has even less of an idea.

 

 

Louis types in _where are you_ and then watches until 'delivered' changes to 'read'. And then waits a few more beats until it's clear he's not getting an immediate reply.

He turns his phone off and glances around the hotel room.

Harry's diary is left open on the desk. Louis doesn't recall when he'd brought it over yesterday but, in some ways, the two of them are as entangled as they ever were.

Not in all ways.

From a distance, Louis can make out the combination of messy scrawl and block letters, underlines and scribbles, random ideas for lyrics, and the columns for things Louis can change and things he can't.

Fuck.

He's not quite proud of the way he'd left things between them last night.

He opens his phone again, scrolls up the conversation. He hasn't received anything from Harry since they were bored at Heathrow yesterday morning he'd sent him a link to a new rescue at the Manchester Dogs' Home.

Not long after X Factor, Harry had caught Louis googling photos of black poodle mixes and had promptly begun tagging @Louis_Tomlinson for dog memes.

Once he learned that Louis had his own actual dog in the future and that _no, love, we can't go collect him now, he's not even born yet_ , he's been campaigning for Louis to adopt an older brother or sister for Clifford.

His campaign has stepped up a bit in the months since moving out of Princess Park and their no-pets policy. 

Harry still hasn't replied to his text when Louis gets a notification from twitter that his mother posted something.

He glances at the time. He'd thought she would be at the twins' dance rehearsal right now, but if she's on twitter, she can hardly be too busy. 

Maybe there's time to ring her for her advice on Harry.

Except then he sees what she's retweeted. Sees Harry and himself gazing at each other from opposite sides of the path in Central Park.

The photo's captioned 'Just ask him out already!' and only made more awkward by the fact that Louis' purported _boyfriend_ is the person they're craning their necks to look around.

And, oh, even better. Anne has now liked the tweet as well.

Louis rolls his eyes and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He already knows her mind.

 

 

"I'm fine."

The tired resignation in Harry's voice makes Louis stop in the hallway outside the One Direction dressing room.

"If you don't want us to get Louis, we could at least get Hilde?" Liam asks, out of sight. "She could go over that bridge with you before we go out there again."

"No. Look. I'm just being stupid, alright?"

"No, you're not," Niall says. "It's a hard part. That run—"

Louis, out of view, shakes his head. It was more than the technical difficulty that had Harry messing up his bridge on every run-through at rehearsal. He knows Harry too well for that. He'd spent their whole time on-stage trying to puzzle out how to help him.

Eventually, though, they'd had to take a break and Louis had been called away for a phone conference for Red Nose Day.

"Harry had it down just a few days ago, though," Liam argues.

Louis moves to step into the room to stop them from harassing Harry about it any more, but then Harry speaks up.

"It's not that," he says. "All those lyrics about belonging and home. Louis wrote those. And... I don't know. Maybe I'm just feeling a bit homesick."

"Oh, is that it?" Liam says. "You're flying back tomorrow night for Christmas, remember? Be back in Holmes Chapel in no time."

"I mean," Harry says. "That's not quite it."

"But you said you were homesick."

"I feel that way even when I'm there, though," Harry says. "It doesn't make sense. Is it possible to be homesick for a home you don't even know?"

Fuck.

Louis slumps against the wall and lets his head bang back against it.

"You're right. That doesn't make sense," Liam says from inside the room.

"No, it does," Zayn argues. "Everything's so different now. We all feel like that sometimes, don't we?"

"And no one back home really understands what it's like, do they?" Niall puts in.

Louis rubs his eyes. He can see the words being added to the column in Harry's diary right now.

Things he _can_ change.

"Yeah," Harry echoes weakly. And then speaks again with more determination in his voice. "I'll get it this time, though. I told you, I'm just being stupid."

 

 

"That's the new tattoo?"

Louis stills.

Carole isn't having it. "Come on, Louis, a little help here? You're not actually a toddler, as much as you act like one sometimes."

Paul and Niall snicker. Louis shoots the room at large a glare but then does move his arms so Carole can strip his shirt the rest of the way off him.

Harry's eyes are wide and green and Louis follows his gaze to where his skin is now fully exposed, and red and puffy around the new tattoo on his arm.

"You said it didn't mean anything," Harry says quietly.

Louis yanks his t-shirt over his head and grabs for his hoodie from atop a pile of holiday garlands. "It doesn't."

"Looks sick, though, right?" Zayn says.

"Not all tattoos have to mean something," Louis insists, repeating his words from last night.

Harry bites his lip and looks down at the ground.

Louis softens. "Haz—"

"You reckon I should bring snacks?" Liam interrupts. He glances at where Paul's waiting in the doorway. "Maybe we could stop on the way over?"

"Snacks?" Zayn repeats.

Dress rehearsal gone better than their first one did and now they're about to be divided up for the afternoon. Niall and Zayn are supposed to be seen at the mall and Liam. Well.

"You don't think Taylor will have food at her house?" Niall asks with a laugh.

"I don't want to presume," Liam says. "I mean, I'm supposed to be staying overnight."

"She can afford t'feed you, mate," Louis tells him, zipping up his hoodie. "She's a teeny bit richer than you are, you know."

And then, forgetting for a moment they're maybe, possibly, in an argument, he glances over at Harry.

Harry gives him a small smile in return.

"Yeah, but—" Liam fiddles with the strap of his bag.

"You alright?" Louis turns back to Liam and squeezes his shoulder. "You know you don't _have_ to stay the night, yeah? We'll pop you over now for the paps to see you, then get you back first thing in the morning for your walk of shame."

"We could do that, Li," Harry says, coming up to them. "It wouldn't be any trouble."

"No, we can't do that, Louis," Paul says, folding thick arms over his chest. "I still don't think you understand what the paparazzi are like here in LA."

Louis narrows his eyes at him. "No, I don't think _you_ understand—"

"Er, that's fine. I'll be good staying over, I think," Liam interrupts. Then he glances between Louis and Harry. "Though is that what you did—?"

Louis shakes his head.

It's what they _should_ have done eight years ago. They'd done it in New York often enough. But they'd been too young, still listening too closely to their handlers about the paps waiting around every corner to jump out at them, no matter the time of night.

There's always a way.

Harry reaches for the strings of his hoodie and starts tying them together.

After Louis had woken up on the 2010 X Factor, he'd only managed to get away with keeping his distance for a couple of weeks before being inevitably drawn back into Harry's orbit. 

He'd helped Harry sing and Harry had helped him pretend to be eighteen and figure out how this time travel thing worked.

Part of helping Louis figure out time travel was recorded in Harry's diary still lying there in his hotel room.

And part of helping Louis pretend to be eighteen was Harry tying his hoodie strings into little bows.

It's not eighteen that Louis has to pretend to be anymore. As of a few days from now, it'll be twenty-one. But he supposes it's habit by now.

Plus, if he brings it up with Harry, there's a good chance he'll also let slip that long before Louis had actually been twenty-one, it had been strongly suggested that he stop tying these little bows, as it might look a bit girly.

Harry is quite close, though, and distracting with how his tongue is sticking out of his mouth as he expends far more than the amount of concentration this task requires. So Louis purposefully looks away — and happens to catch a glance of himself in the mirror.

"Payno, you got me cap in there?" he calls out as Liam starts to follow Paul out the door.

"Your cap?"

"Hair looks like shit."

"Er, sure." Liam sets down his bag to dig through it. Paul sighs loudly.

Harry frowns down at Louis, still far too close. "No, it doesn't."

Louis raises his eyebrows.

"It doesn't," Harry insists. "You look good always, Lou."

When he meets his eyes and Harry looks away.

"Hey, Haz, you were brilliant with the song just now. Did I tell you that?" he offers.

"Only about five hundred times," Niall says helpfully.

Louis ignores him and tells Harry, "You're going to smash it tomorrow, you know." And, then, to be fair, he turns to the rest of the boys. "You all are, lads. Proud of you. Now, Payno, look, I'm serious. One word and we'll come rescue you from her clutches."

"No, you won't," Paul interrupts.

"I'm sure it'll be fine." Liam hands Louis his knit cap. "It's just odd, the whole situation. I know you don't like her, but she doesn't seem too bad."

"Did you miss the part where she'll be writing an entire album dedicated to what a shit boyfriend you are?" Louis asks.

He thought he hadn't minced any words on that topic. But, despite that, several months ago when he'd informed their team in no uncertain terms that they weren't doing taking Swift's people up on her offer, Liam had naturally had to interrupt with saying that he wouldn't mind.

"But half the stuff they write about me in the papers already isn't true anyways," Liam says as he picks his bag back up. "The publicity's good for all of us. It's just business, yeah?"

"Right." Louis can't help another glance at Harry, who's looking at the ground again, worrying at his bottom lip.

When they'd left New York after Madison Square Garden two weeks ago, Harry had thanked Liam and said he'd felt bad knowing that if he and Louis hadn't come out as gay when they were still on The X Factor, that it would have been him.

Which was fine. And true. But then he'd told Liam he was doing it so much better than he would have.

And then Zayn had agreed and said that Liam was better at not taking these things personally.

Which led to Louis jumping in to Harry's defence, saying that he'd been dealing with a lot more, between the pressure of acting straight on a very large stage at the same time as being more separated from the other boys than he'd ever been before — and his boyfriend had been a proper dickhead about the whole thing, which hadn't made that any easier — and that there was nothing wrong with being such a good person that he didn't want to believe that their industry wasn't built on kindness.

Louis had had to talk over Zayn to get it all out, and it wasn't until he was through his speech that he realized why Zayn had kept trying to interrupt him. Or why the other boys were all staring at him. Or why Harry's eyes had gone so wide.

And, well, here they are now.

 

 

After dropping Niall and Zayn off for an appearance at the mall, their rented Range Rover pulls up to the front of the hotel.

The size of the crowd waiting for them outside is far more impressive, as usual, than the showing of security. But, if they weren't here to be seen, they would have come around the back way.

Still, Louis reminds Harry as he pulls him away from the fan he's just tried to give a hug — this boy, seriously — they're here to be _seen_. They're not here to risk their lives trying to sign a few autographs in a crowd this size.

 

 

"There are a lot of people."

"Do you think?" Louis says, and then rolls his eyes. "Babe, they can't see you from 'ere."

"Are you sure?" Harry asks, stilling the hand he's waving out from Louis' closed eleventh-story window.

Louis turns around to hide the fond smile he's sure is on his face right now. He knows as well as anyone how easily he gives himself away.

By the time he kicks off his shoes and turns around, though, it's to the sight of Harry —

"What are you doing?" Louis exclaims and lets out a startled laugh. He tugs Harry back by his t-shirt, and then tugs the t-shirt down from where he was trying to take it off.

"I wanted to see if you were right," Harry says, dimples popping.

"Are you mad?" Louis asks indignantly.

"You're the one who was so sure they couldn't see," Harry points out.

Louis throws up his arms. "I didn't say you should test it!"

Harry shoots him a cheeky grin before stepping back to the window.

"It _is_ mad, though, isn't it?" he says. "And they're all here to see us."

Louis drops down onto the armchair. It's one of those low-set ones that's precisely as uncomfortable as it looks and still probably cost the hotel ten thousand pounds.

Harry presses his fingers to the window as he watches the crowd in continued fascination.

In the beginning, Louis would see all the future versions of Harry when he looked at him like this. But lately, more and more, he just sees this Harry, this incarnation in front of him.

"You really weren't lying when you said we were bigger than the Beatles, were you?" Harry muses.

"Well, I didn't actually lie about _all_ of it, you know," Louis points out dryly.

"Oh."

Harry slowly turns around to face him. It's the first either of them has brought up the night before.

"Look—" Louis tries.

"I'm sorry," Harry blurts out before he can continue.

"You don't have to apologize, mate," Louis says. "I'm the one who should do that."

"I am sorry, though, Lou," he insists. "I was really rude. I was going to come back last night and tell you but I thought you probably wouldn't want to see me."

Louis clenches his hands in his hoodie to keep from reaching out for him. "I always want to see you."

Harry looks at the floor, biting his lip. "Um, so what you said last night, about — that first day? I wasn't hallucinating that, was I?" He frowns. "Does cocaine make you hallucinate?"

"Standard cocaine or the sort you get from strange blokes in the back of a club?" Louis can't help the snippy tone in his voice.

"Oh." Harry shifts his weight, frowning. "You're still upset about that?"

"Haz, you could've been _hurt_."

"But you said the same thing happened last time, too. So you knew that it was fine — wait." Harry's eyes widen. "Is that what caused our rift? Did I have a drugs problem?"

"What?" Louis stares at him, incredulous. "No. Of course not."

But Harry doesn't seem relieved, just chews on his lip for another moment. "So was it, um, the other thing you mentioned? That I'd kissed you that day? Did I make everything uncomfortable—"

"No," Louis interrupts him forcefully. He stands up and reaches for his chin, tilting it to make him look directly at him. "You did nothing wrong. Not that day. Not _ever_."

When sixteen-year-old Harry had learned that he and Louis hadn't spoken in almost three years, he'd attributed it to a sort of falling out between them. And, since Louis couldn't explain what actually happened, he hadn't corrected him. But he'd thought he'd made this point clear, at least.

He stares into his big green eyes for another moment, then asks, "Why won't you believe me when I tell you it was my fault, not yours?"

"Because it doesn't make sense any other way, Lou," Harry tells him, crease in between his eyebrows. "I can't imagine ever wanting to let a day go by without seeing you, let alone _years_. So it had to have been something I did wrong."

Louis looks at him for a long moment. He supposes this might as well happen now.

"Haz, do you remember the other day I mentioned you'd had a boyfriend?"

But Harry takes a step back, shaking his head. "No, Lou. I don't want to talk about that."

"You... don't?"

"I really don't," he says. "I don't care about him."

"Alright?"

Harry glances out the window and then turns back to him. "Can you sit down? I have to tell you something."

Louis eyes him but lets him lead him back to the chair. Harry sits down gingerly on the glass coffee table in front of him.

"Right. Just—" Harry starts. He rubs his hands over his thighs. "Okay, I'm sorry if this makes things awkward between us, but they already kind of _are_ , aren't they?"

Louis winces. It's true. It's been true. He knows that.

"I'm not saying this because — I know you don't see me that way. That's not why I'm telling you this."

"Telling me what?" Louis asks, mouth dry.

"That I'm in love with you."

Louis gapes at him, heart thudding.

"I'm in love with you." When Harry looks back up at him, he can see the wet sheen in his eyes. "I'm so, so in love with you, Lou."

"Hazza—" His voice cracks.

Harry wipes his eyes. "And that's why I know that it couldn't have been anything you did wrong, why we didn't talk anymore. I would have been in love with you then, too, you know. Even if I didn't tell you."

Louis stares.

"I promise, it's just not possible any other way," he says. "I've tried not to, but instead I fall more in love with you every day. There's no chance he wouldn't have been."

Louis opens his mouth, but Harry keeps talking.

"You don't have to say it. Lou, I _know_ you don't feel the same way." 

"Hazza, let me—"

"I just want you to know why I keep pushing you to tell me more," Harry continues. "Because you're sad and I know something must have happened. Something big that you're not telling me. And I just want to take care of you. That's all I ever want."

"I'm not—" Louis can't keep track of this conversation. "What?"

"You're not happy. Not a lot of the time." Harry reaches out to squeeze his knee. "And then sometimes even when you are, you still look so sad."

"I'm not sad," Louis protests, picking up the one part of this conversation he can argue against. "I'm not unhappy. I'm just not a teenager anymore. You knew me when I was eighteen and I know I still look young, but—"

"Barely," Harry interrupts.

"What?"

"I barely knew you when you were eighteen," he says. "I knew you for a few months. I knew you liked footie and Grease and making people laugh. And you were a so much better singer than anyone ever told you and I wish they had." He offers him a watery smile. "But I didn't even know you liked boys, not for sure."

Louis frowns at him.

"I knew I wanted to kiss you," Harry says. "I mean, you knew that, I guess, since I did. But I wasn't in love with you when you were eighteen, Lou."

"Harry—" Louis tries, voice rough.

"I fell in love with you when you were twenty-six," Harry tells him. "Maybe you think I'm really young and kind of slow—"

"No," Louis protests immediately. He grabs for Harry's hand, where it's still squeezing his knee, and he grips it tight.

"So, like, I don't look at you now and see you when you were twenty," Harry says. "You're the only version of yourself I've ever really known and the only one I've ever been in love with."

"I—"

"I love you so, so much. I know you won't ever feel the same way. I don't care. But no one deserves to be happy more than you do and you take care of everyone else and I just want to — I wish you would just tell me what happened."

"Harry—" Louis hears his own voice crack.

He doesn't even know how to — what he's supposed to think, to do about this. Fuck.

And so he surges forwards and kisses him. 

Harry's lips are soft and lovely but after a moment, he freezes before him.

Louis pulls back and looks at him carefully.

"Lou, what — why did you do that?" Harry asks. His eyes widen. "And why are you crying?"

"I'm not."

But when he reaches up to his own cheek it does feel wet. He lets out a small laugh.

"Did you do that just to keep from talking to me?" Harry demands.

"I don't think so?" Louis says.

Harry gives him an unimpressed look and starts to stand up. Louis reaches out to stop him.

"Because I couldn't let you believe for another moment that you're not loved," Louis says, voice finally catching up to him. "That's why."

Harry's lips part.

"You are _so_ loved, darling." Louis brushes his thumb over his cheek. "So, so loved. And I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Harry's eyes dart back and forth. "I don't understand."

"Let me tell you about your boyfriend."

"No." Harry stands and paces across the room. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you. I really don't care."

"Alright." Louis stands up from his chair. "That's alright. Can I tell you about _my_ boyfriend, then?"

Harry's eyes widen with alarm. And he looks for a moment like he's going to protest but then he shuts his mouth and nods slowly.

"He was brilliant," Louis starts. Then corrects himself. "He _is_ brilliant. He's gorgeous and clever and so kind. So caring. He charms every person he's ever met. Everyone he meets falls a bit in love with him."

Harry wraps his arms around himself and Louis takes a step closer to him.

"Met him at X Factor auditions, didn't I? Then got put into a group with him. Best thing to ever happen to me. Right up until the day he kissed me."

Harry shakes his head slowly, jaw going slack.

"I kissed you back," Louis tells him. "Was a proper twat, so it took me three weeks to do it. But I kissed you back. Spent five years kissing you back, love. Right up til the day you left me." He gives him a rueful smile. "If you hadn't run out on me last night, you might've heard that part."

 

 

Paul collects them to go down and greet the crowd again. Louis rearranges the knit cap over his head and then, because Harry is still just staring at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Louis runs his hands through his hair, rearranging the curls he'd dishevelled earlier.

Security is better this time and they have proper barriers. As they take selfies and sign a few autographs, Louis can't help but keep darting his eyes over to Harry, who stares at him, wide-eyed, in return.

Then finally the Los Angeles sun is setting and Paul ushers them back inside.

As soon as they're back on their hotel floor and far enough from Paul and the security guarding the lift entrance, Harry hisses, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Louis doesn't play stupid, but he does take an extra moment for himself as he pulls his key card out of his pocket.

"Lou?" Harry prompts him again.

"Yeah, alright." Louis lets them in and sits down heavily on the end of the bed, kicking off his shoes and tucking his feet up onto the edge. 

He hugs his arms around his knees and looks up at Harry, who is standing awkwardly by the open entrance to the bedroom, shifting his weight on his feet.

"Why, Lou?"

"I — well, that day. Was 2018 and I was in New York, yeah? Had tickets for Madison Square Garden. There was this promising young singer, sold the place out for two nights."

Harry's brow creases.

"Was risky even going, chance of fans seeing me there. But I couldn't resist." He offers Harry a rueful smile. "I've never been that good at staying away from you."

"But you hadn't seen me for three years," Harry says.

"Almost three years. Yeah, I hadn't." Louis rubs the back of his neck. "But I was going to see you that day. But instead of waking up in New York, I woke up in the X Factor house next to this beautiful boy."

"Right," Harry says faintly. "And you woke us all up complaining about Zayn's hair gel."

Louis laughs a little. "That I did."

"Why did you lie, though?" Harry asks. "Do you remember, later, when I even asked you if we'd ever—?"

Louis _does_ remember. But he'd lied about being with Harry so many times, what had been one more time.

"Well, I didn't exactly have a plan, did I? You weren't quite the same twenty-four-year-old boy I was expecting to see that day."

Harry visibly swallows and ducks his eyes down. "Right."

"No, hey, babe." Louis nudges him with his toe. "I woke up and _you_ were there. You were every bit the boy I fell in love with."

"Lou—"

"I _loved_ you, Harry," Louis says. "I loved you just the same as I ever have, more than should even be possible." Louis smiles ruefully. "But there are things I want more than being with you, Hazza."

"Like _what_?"

"Like seeing you happy."

"I am happy."

"Seeing you up there on that stage at Madison Square Garden."

"We were there the other week," Harry reminds him.

"We were, yeah," Louis agrees. "But, look, put yourself in my shoes, alright? Wake up eight years back in time and all I can see is that sixteen-year-old boy I'd let down."

"Lou, don't say that."

"You don't know, Hazza," Louis insists. "I didn't take care of you as well as I should have."

"No, that can't be—" Harry slumps down to sit on the bed beside him, blinking watery eyes in the glow of the blue ceiling lights. "All you ever do is take care of people, Lou."

"Love—"

Harry fiddles his fingers in his lap. "You're sad because of me."

"What? No. Never." Louis twists on the bed to face him. "Look at me. Harry. I'm not _sad_."

"You are."

"No. You've made me so happy. Just knowing you're in the world makes me happy."

Harry looks dismayed.

"Hazza." Louis shifts closer. "Look, no matter how long I got to love you, it would've felt too short. And I had five years. Do you know how grateful I am for that?"

"Why are you—" Harry swallows. "Lou, I just told you how much I love you. If you love me, I feel the same way. Why are you talking like it's over?"

Louis reaches over and runs his thumb over his jaw before letting it drop back down.

"And why didn't you just tell me? Did you think you were going to scare me or something?" Harry asks. "You wouldn't have. You know you wouldn't have, right?"

Louis lets out a long breath. "Hazza, I woke up in 2010. You were sixteen."

"You think I'm too young? Is that it?" Harry asks, voice strained.

"I think you _were_ too young," Louis says carefully. "Maybe young isn't even the word. You weren't a _child_ , but — There was so much of the world you didn't know anything about yet."

"Do you still think I'm too young?" Harry asks.

Louis looks away. "Look, all this time, since the very beginning, I keep wondering what if I asked twenty-four-year-old what you want me to do. I wonder about what you would say."

He shakes his head and tugs at his beanie. 

"But twenty-four-year-old you isn't here and so you never answer. _You never answer._ As much as I. Fuck, Harry." He looks back at him. "I don't think you regretted it. I think I did make you happy, for a while. And to be perfectly honest, I never believed it was over."

Harry watches him.

"I never stopped believing you might give me another chance," Louis says. "But that doesn't matter because, darling, the last thing I knew, the last thing you told me, was that you didn't want us to be together."

"No, Lou—"

Louis offers him a tired smile. "And so that's all I can ever really know for sure."

Harry shakes his head. A tear trails down his cheek. "Do you want to be with me, though, Lou?"

"I—" He stops himself. "I just want to get it right for you, I think."

"And you actually think that older version of me wouldn't want us to be together?" Harry asks. "Because I can't imagine that."

"You know, Haz." Louis lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping down. "I'm not actually sure it matters."

"It doesn't matter?"

"No, I don't reckon it does anymore." Louis offers him a small smile. "That twenty-four-year-old boy. Where is he? He's not even here."

He reaches out and wipes the tears from Harry's cheek.

"You're the one sat in front of me right now, aren't you?"

"So ask me what I want, then," Harry pleads. "Don't ask him. Just ask _me_."

"Darling," Louis says. "What do you think I'm doing right now?"

 

 

They spend the rest of the night in that dark hotel room talking, and kissing, and talking some more. They hug each other so tight their arms tremble.

And then, the next morning, Louis wakes to Harry's fingers tracing over the sting of his new tattoo.

His head is rested on Harry's bare chest. He's broad and muscled, even if not quite as broad as he'll be some day. It doesn't take much to turn and press his lips over the muscle there, to taste the hint of salt and sweat in the dip between his pecs.

Harry stills, his breath hitches.

Louis can feel Harry's eyes on him, waiting.

He rubs down his side, searching for the curve of his hip. There's so little softness to his body these days but he can always find a reliable bit right here.

He'd dropped a lot on Harry last night. Maybe they should talk more. Maybe he should sure this is really what Harry wants in the light of day.

But Harry had dropped a lot on him, too. And all he can hear now is the echo of _I love you more and more every day_ and _I know you don't feel the same way_ and _Just ask me._

_Please ask me._

It'd take a proper act of god for Louis to give up this boy now.

"Lou," Harry whispers, voice morning-hoarse.

Louis gives his chest one more kiss and then lifts his head to meet bright green eyes.

"You're still here," is all Louis can think to say.

Harry huffs out a startled laugh. "What? Of course _I'm_ still here. I'm always going to be—" He stops himself abruptly, probably just remembering everything Louis had told him. But then he continues anyways, stubborn set to his jaw. "I'm always going to be here." He gives Louis a searching look. "If you want me here."

Fuck.

Louis has so much to prove to this boy.

But, right now, he just kisses him.

 

 

And they kiss and kiss until Louis' phone, stranded somewhere across the room, starts insistently dinging from texts and Paul pounds down his door to collect him for his meeting at Sony.

"It's, um." Harry asks before he leaves, his eyes are on his arm. "It's not just a tattoo, is it?"

He'll tell him later, what they all were. What they all meant. But he doesn't know if he even has the words to explain why he got this one.

So he just shakes his head.

 

 

"It's just a tattoo," Louis tells the reporter with the MTV microphone.

"Everyone thinks you have to have a reason for tattoos," Harry puts in over the noise of the red carpet.

"Sometimes a boat is just a boat, isn't it?" Louis says.

The reporter gives them a tired smile. "So, you'll be singing Wouldn't It Be Nice at the X Factor tonight, is that right?"

"It's actually our first time performing it," Liam chimes in. "We're really excited about it."

"Wouldn't It Be Nice. Isn't that a Beach Boys song?"

"It is, it is." Louis glances at Harry. "It's definitely inspired by their song. A homage."

"A home-age," Harry puts in.

"A — what?" their reporter asks.

"Home-age," Harry repeats.

She glances around at the rest of them uncertainly. Liam looks as confused as she does, Niall is blinking at Harry, Zayn is silently cracking up.

Harry has a frown on his face as if he's confused about why they're confused and Louis just — 

Just loves this boy.

"So, you and Taylor Swift?" the reporter moves on, turning back to Liam.

As Liam tells her they're good friends, someone hands Louis a Pepsi. He turns the logo so it's facing the cameras and then glances over at Harry again. He's fidgeting with his sleeve again. He's been doing that all evening. It's a bit distracting.

Niall's asked if they're excited about their tour, and they are. And then if he's still single, and he is.

"Now, what's the sweetest thing you guys want to do in 2013?" the reporter asks.

Harry, without missing a beat, says, "Eat an apple pie."

She blinks at him.

"They're pretty sweet, right?"

His dimples pop when Louis catches his eye and Louis has the sudden crazy, wild urge to reach over and take his hand.

And he could do it. Right here, right now, in the middle of The X Factor USA red carpet. He could claim this boy as his and the world wouldn't come crumbling down around them.

He doesn't. He reaches out and adjusts Harry's pocket square instead.

But, for the first time in years, he doesn't push down the reckless hope swelling in his chest.

 

 

Louis is listening to Liam describing meeting Taylor Swift's family yesterday when he feels arms wrap around his waist. 

A familiar pair of arms, even if it's been so long since he's felt them like this. He leans back onto the solid chest behind him and places a hand over Harry's. 

Harry leans his chin on his shoulder, curls tickling at Louis' neck. Louis gently traces the dips between his knuckles.

It takes a moment to realize that the room has gone silent. He raises his eyes to a gaping Liam and Niall and to Zayn's raised eyebrows. From across the dressing room, Lou Teasdale glances up from where she's taking out the hairspray to give him a smug smirk.

"About time," Zayn drawls.

"About... um, what?" Liam says. "What's happening?"

Louis twists around to look at Harry, but Harry's not looking at him. He's glaring out defensively at the other boys.

"Lou's my boyfriend," he declares.

Louis raises his eyebrows but settles contently back into his arms.

"Er, what's that? Is this a prank?" Liam glances between them.

Louis rolls his eyes. "Not a prank."

"It's not." Harry tightens his arms around his waist. "He's my boyfriend."

"Thank fucking god," Niall finally bursts out. "Was it what I retweeted this morning that finally did it? Knew you'd come around if I just followed enough Larry fans."

"What tweet?" Zayn asks.

"You know, that one Naveen deleted."

"The _porn_ one?" Liam demands, voice going high. "You said you were hacked."

 

 

Louis is getting his quiff reinforced with more wax and Hilde's doing vocal exercises with Liam and Carole is making Harry swap out his jacket.

The white shirt Harry has on underneath is short sleeved and Louis suddenly catches sight of Harry's arms.

Louis, as the de facto leader of their band, now more than ever before, had been at a meeting about filming for This is Us today. But he'd thought Harry hadn't been doing any more than get papped ordering at In 'n Out.

Louis had put in an order for a chocolate shake and Harry had drank most of it.

"Louis!" Lou calls after him.

"Be right back," he yells back. Then turns to Harry, who is looking at him, biting his lip.

"Hi," Harry says.

"Hi," Louis tells him, smiling. "What is it?"

"Um," Harry says.

Louis traces the smooth skin of his forearm around the big white bandage. Then he nudges the edge of the tape. "Can I see it, darling?"

Harry nods, but as Louis starts to push up the tape, he confesses in a rush, "I hope you don't think it's stupid. Or, like, too much. I just wanted — I went to Shamrock this morning."

Louis watches him. "Yeah?"

"You said we had matching ones. I don't even know if your ship was one of them but I thought—"

"You thought?" Louis prompts him as he finishes peeling off one edge of tape. But then he lifts the gauze to see — oh. 

"So, um. He showed me some things that might go with it. There was an anchor I sort of liked, but for some reason this one—"

Louis stares down at it in awe. He knows better than to touch it but he presses the tip of his finger over the northern point of the compass anyways. "This says home, Hazza."

"Yeah. I, um, asked him to put that. You don't think it's—"

Louis cuts him off with a kiss.

When he pulls back, Harry is staring at him with wide, concerned green eyes.

There are so many things Louis wants to say. More things than he can get out before Lou forcibly wrangles him back to finish his hair. More than could even fit into this backstage dressing room.

But all he can think of right now is: "Will you be my PR boyfriend, Hazza?"

It makes Harry pull back and frown. "No."

"No?"

"I'll be your _real_ boyfriend," he says.

Louis laughs and reaches up to tuck a curl behind Harry's ear. "You can be that if you want to be. But I'd also like to hold _your_ hand on the red carpet next time."

Harry eyes him. "Does that mean you're breaking up with Joe?"

 

 

Later, they'll step out onto one more X Factor stage and Harry will smash his solo and then trip over his microphone wire. 

Later, Louis will promise him that no one saw and then kiss him backstage.

Later, it'll get picked up by TMZ — the kiss and the stumble — and Louis and Harry will be reprimanded for not giving The Sun the exclusive. Later, Joe McElderry will tiredly explain to Dan Wootton that he and Louis are both private people but they'd actually enjoyed a mutual and amicable break up two weeks ago.

Later, Liam will go on a ski trip with Taylor Swift and she'll write a song titled Pain while he plays with her dogs.

The rest of them will get on a private plane back to London and Harry won't let go of Louis' hand for one second and Louis won't want him to.


	2. Fireproof

[December 2012, Doncaster]

"He's really taking care of you, isn't he?"

Louis glances up. His mum presses a kiss to the side of his head as she takes a seat on the sofa beside him. He leans into her side and looks back to the kitchen, where Harry and the twins are finishing the washing up.

Harry's t-shirt stretches across his shoulder blades as he rinses off a dish.

"Can't convince him I don't need him to," Louis says, even as he finds himself wishing Harry was here or he was over there. When _did_ he become so needy?

He startles at a sharp slap to his shoulder.

"Oi, mum!" He whirls around on her.

"Since when do you not need it?" she demands. 

Louis opens his mouth to answer but she talks over him.

"You deserve it," she says firmly.

Louis doesn't say anything to that, just settles back down on the sofa. In the kitchen, Harry runs a wet hand through his hair, leaving a sud of soap on the curls he tucks behind his ear. Louis shakes his head and watches his sister giggle and flick it away.

"When did you stop opening up, my baby?"

He glances at her, then back at Harry.

"I told him everything," he confesses. 

It's been something about the night. Cuddled together on a private plane above the Atlantic, whispers in the dark. The nights in London spent wrapped in each other's arms as the rain poured down outside. Last night, side-by-side in Harry's childhood bed.

"Everything?"

"Too much," Louis says. "Everything I've bit me tongue about."

He's not even sure what he'd meant to share and hadn't. The words have just tumbled out and kept tumbling out and, well—

That first day back in 2010, Louis, never being too good at biting his tongue under the best of circumstances, had barely made it until sound check with Simon-fucking-Cowell was through before blurting out that he was from the future.

He hadn't made it much longer than that before blurting out that he was gay, too.

And, Harry, confused, stunned, had exclaimed, _You're gay? But I'm gay, too!_

And Louis had promised himself, then and there, that Harry would never, ever learn to be afraid to say those words out loud.

Louis had told the other boys quite a lot about their own futures. Hadn't quite seen the point otherwise. But, up until a few days ago, Louis had only told Harry just enough about what it was like to be in the closet to convince him it was important to say those words out loud again, on live TV, before he couldn't anymore.

"Good," his mum says firmly.

"Was trying to protect him from all this," Louis says.

"Do you reckon he really wants to be protected?" she asks.

Harry's turning off the tap as the girls shove the last dish into the cupboard and run out of the kitchen, squealing something about their presents.

He thinks of Zayn, a couple of months in, around the time Louis had stopped treating him like the man who'd tossed away their friendship like it was nothing and started treating him like the sweet, shy, bratty eighteen-year-old boy he was.

Thinks of him saying, like it wasn't a secret at all, like Louis had told anyone aside from his mum, "When are you going to tell him you're in love with him, then?"

Harry probably didn't want to be protected from anything. Probably hadn't wanted to be from the beginning. But—

"Because I reckon he's wanted to properly take care of you for a long time," his mum continues. "Let my son-in-law have this, boo."

And Louis thinks 'son-in-law'. Thinks, they could have a proper future together. It's too much to comprehend.

It's only been a few days and all the hopes he'd locked away are back. He feels utterly defenceless against them.

 

 

Harry's mouth broadens into a grin as Louis walks into the kitchen. He's beautiful. Shiny, bright, bouncy, gorgeous, beautiful.

"Came to help," Louis tells him, voice feeling a bit raw.

"M'already finished, Lou," Harry says, cheek dimpling.

"Yeah," Louis says weakly.

Harry is the best at hugs and all Louis wants is one right now.

Normally, Harry is soft and pliant and warm and perfect for a cuddle. He lets Louis move him however he want him, fits himself into whatever space he's needed in.

But then there are strong, stubborn hugs. Hugs where Harry makes himself so much bigger than Louis than he's ever been. Big enough to surround Louis from every angle, shield him from the world.

Hugs meant to tell the world, go away, he's mine. He's mine and _you can't have him_.

Louis knows how to get the first kind of hug, knows how to tackle Harry into a cuddle.

But he doesn't know the words to ask for the second type of hug. Can't remember if he ever did know.

So, instead, he takes a step towards the door and wraps his arms around himself against the chill. Through the window he watches the Christmas rains flooding the back garden.

He doesn't even know why he's feeling morose. It's the holidays and he's spending it with his family and Harry. It shouldn't feel like there's jagged glass cutting up his heart.

He glances up to find Harry looking at him, biting his lip.

His t-shirt clings to his biceps and Louis' eyes fall to the compass on his forearm. The lines of it familiar, but etched this time onto Harry's pale skin.

Harry's hand is broader than his own, lotion-smooth. There are no rings adorning his long fingers and his nails are painted in a light green polish.

Last time, it had taken a couple of years and a jokey remark with a little too much truth behind it to give Louis the hint that Harry had ever considered painting his nails.

It had taken another couple of years before he'd ever kept the polish on outside their own front door.

This time, it was soon after they'd moved into Princess Park that Louis had brought home a shimmering light pink bottle of polish. Harry had turned red and stammered and said that was all right, that he didn't need it.

But his eyes had lit up with delight and possibility before Louis had even finished his first nail.

Louis looks up to meet big green eyes again.

He wonders why this still feels like a week ago sometimes, like the few feet between them is an immeasurable distance he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to cross.

Louis shakes his head, tries to will himself to stop being an idiot about this.

He reaches out to tug at Harry's t-shirt. "Come here, Hazza."

"Oh, thank god," Harry breathes out for some reason.

And it's like a dam bursting between them. He's suddenly right there, arms wrapped around him, tight, tight and warm against the chill creeping in around the back door.

Louis digs his fingers into his hips and he buries his face in his neck, smelling Christmas baking and Tom Ford cologne and _Harry_.

And, oh, fuck, it's the second type of hug.

"I've been trying not to." Harry murmurs after a moment, pulling back just a little but not letting go.

"Trying not to what?" Louis asks. He draws back just enough to meet his eyes.

"Be, like, clingy?"

Louis can't help the relieved, ridiculous giggles that escape him.

Harry's brow knots in the middle. "Lou?"

"No, love. No." That's all Louis says, because he doesn't have the words for _I've been trying to ask for a hug and I forgot how._

"I kind of want to be with you all the time," Harry says, brow screwed up like he's not sure if they're in an argument or not.

"Me, too." Louis runs his knuckles down Harry's side, thumbs at the curve of abs under his t-shirt.

"I know I'm being needy," Harry continues. "But I can't even help it. I don't know how to stop. I don't want to let go."

Louis wraps his arms back around him, pulling him in tight, and tells him, "Please don't, then."

 

 

[January 2013, London]

Louis switches off the hob and frowns down at the parma ham. He's starting to second-guess himself. Was he actually supposed to have cooked it separately or just wrap it raw around the chicken?

He glances at the recipe he's pulled up on his phone. He's starting to suspect it's not even the same one. He's told the story of this meal so many times, so many versions of it with so many different pronouns, that it's hard to remember what's real.

He feels like he's eighteen again, this idiot of a teenager just trying to get the attention of the loveliest boy he'd ever met.

Perhaps he should phone his mum.

He's just about to when he hears the locks of front door turning, it slam open with a gust of wind and curly boy.

"Lou, is that _you_? Are you back?"

Louis steps away from the hob and wipes his hands on his trackies. 

"You're early and you're here and—" Harry stops abruptly in the kitchen doorway, dropping his shopping bags onto the floor. "You're... cooking?"

His scepticism isn't entirely undeserved.

"I'm making you dinner," Louis informs him.

Harry frowns. "But that's my job."

"You can cook tomorrow," Louis assures him, taking a step closer.

"We'll be in Ghana this time tomorrow," Harry says.

That's possibly correct. At least they'll be in the air somewhere above Northern Africa at this time tomorrow.

Harry steps up closer to meet him and Louis wraps his arms around his waist. He buries his nose in his neck, inhaling deep. 

"Did you miss me at all?" Harry asks.

Louis tries to muster enough exasperation to roll his eyes.

The last two nights were the first they'd spent apart since The X Factor final in LA.

Louis had years of practice being apart from this boy, both when they were together and after they weren't anymore. But after they'd hung up the phone that first night, he'd stared up at the hotel ceiling in Sweden and made it barely five minutes before pushing redial and saying, _Talk to me more, Hazza_.

Last night they hadn't even attempted to hang up and he'd woken up this morning to soft snores on the other end of the line.

"Nope." Louis pulls back in his arms. "Didn't miss you at all."

"You're lying," Harry says.

"You love me," Louis tells him.

Harry's lips purse with a suppressed smile. "I love you _and_ you're lying. Why are you cooking?"

"Maybe I'm trying to be romantic, darling."

"It's a _romantic_ dinner?" Harry asks, eyes widening as he glances around the kitchen.

"Maybe," Louis hedges.

"But you took me to Donny Dome just the other day, Lou," he says with a frown. 

"So?"

"You rented out the whole thing for us."

Louis raises his eyebrows at him.

"You don't have to keep doing these things," Harry says.

Louis does. He does. He couldn't give him the giddy teenage years of a first love. He owes him so much more than this.

"I love you," is all he can bring himself to say.

"I love you," Harry tells him.

Louis squeezes his hips, gives him a peck on the lips, and then turns back to the mozzarella-stuffed chicken.

 

 

Once the chicken's safely tucked into the cooker, Louis goes back to the much more important business of kissing Harry.

Louis runs his hands down the lean muscles of his back, the taper of his hips. He squeezes his small, pert bum.

"Lou."

"Feel so good, love," Louis murmurs, squeezing again. He's delectable in his tight, tight jeans tonight.

Harry moans again as Louis kisses down the side of his neck, tasting the light salt of the skin above the collar of his t-shirt. He grips his hips, pulling him closer, as he kisses him again.

And then he reaches down between them to cup the thick bulge at Harry's crotch.

"Sorry, I—" Harry says, strained. Louis lets his hand fall away. "I'm kind of hard right now."

The declaration makes Louis giggle. He drops his forehead onto his shoulder. "I might've noticed."

Harry pulls away. "I didn't mean to make this awkward." 

"What? By getting a stiffy?" Louis blinks at him.

"You're just really — good at this?" Harry offers, as if he actually needs some explanation. "And you feel really good. I'm sort of turned on all the time."

Louis knows that he's turned on all the time. Knows this and it's been driving him crazy, because nothing turns Louis on more than having a horny Harry nearby and they haven't — they still haven't done anything.

Ten years ago, Louis had thought he should perhaps take things a bit slower for his brand new sixteen-year-old boyfriend. But Harry had wanted everything, all of it, right away and Louis' poor eighteen-year-old self had hardly stood a chance.

Two years ago, in 2010 for the second time, Louis had tried to deflect every one of Harry's not-so-subtle hints. And then, _No, Hazza, no, we really never — We were good mates, love. That's all._

Louis isn't as good a liar as people think he is, but he'd had years of practice on that one.

And now he's had years of practice pretending he didn't catch the devastated disappointment on Harry's face.

Somewhere between the X Factor Tour and moving into that same ridiculous dome apartment at Princess Park, Harry had gone through a shameless, stubborn stage where he'd gone around deep-throating bananas, wiggling his bum, and walking around in the nude any chance he had. As if maybe he thought his other self just simply hadn't made enough of an effort.

Later, he'd begun routinely announcing to the rest of them whenever he'd pulled a new boy a club, hooked up with one at a party, brought one back to his hotel room — and always with a not-so-subtle peek at Louis to get his reaction.

But then, last summer, all of it had just suddenly stopped.

And Louis hadn't been certain if he'd been relieved at that or not.

 

 

"I'm sorry I keep making this awkward," Harry mumbles.

"Stop saying that." Louis steps up to him, runs his hands over his hips. "C'mere. Look at me."

Harry reluctantly raises his eyes.

"If you want me to help you with that—" Louis glances downwards meaningfully. "I'd fucking love to, if I'm honest."

Harry's mouth drops open.

"If you don't, that's fine, too, H," Louis continues. "You can go in t'other room, take care of it yourself. Or I can just keep kissing you and we'll pretend I didn't even notice."

Harry's cheeks are still flushed, he ducks his eyes.

Louis touches his chin and makes him look up again. "Whatever you want to do, love. But no matter what, it's not _awkward_."

"It's a bit awkward—"

"No, I know awkward. Awkward's not this here," Louis tells him. "Awkward having to sit through a lecture on how letting your tease of a boyfriend give you a stiffy on-camera doesn't help you look straight."

"What?" Harry chokes out a startled laugh. "That really happened?"

Louis pokes at the dimple in his cheek. "Yeah, and you seemed to think it was funny, then, too, you twat."

"It's a little funny."

Louis pinches his hip. But then continues, "But look, love. You and me? Never going to be anything awkward here, alright? You're fucking gorgeous and your cock is, too. Whether we do anything about it or not, I love that you're hard."

Harry exhales, eyes widening as his breath comes out all in a rush. "You want to, though, Lou? Do something?"

Louis looks at him carefully. "When you do, yeah."

"I think about it all the time, Lou. You have no idea how much I want—" Harry cuts himself off. 

Louis bites his tongue to keep from telling him that he has _some_ idea.

"But when I was, um. Eighteen? Before?"

He rubs his hands soothingly down Harry's sides. "You mean when I knew you before?"

"Yeah. I mean, I probably had a bit more experience then, right?"

Louis tilts his head. It's not really plausible any other way. "I reckon so."

"I've hardly done anything, though," Harry tells him. "Like, almost nothing. And not for a long time."

Louis frowns at him. "If you had more experience, I wouldn't care. That's why I didn't tell you about us. I didn't want you to—"

"Didn't want me to — what?" Harry demands, stepping back from him. "Didn't want me to think I might have a chance with you?"

Louis' arms fall down to his sides, empty without Harry between them. "I'm sorry."

"And, anyways." Harry steps further away, across the kitchen. "I'm telling you right now that I _haven't_ done anything."

"Alright?" Louis says, uncomprehending where this conversation went. "Hazza, we don't have to do anything you don't want."

"You're the one who said you didn't want to be with me when I was sixteen because I wasn't experienced," Harry reminds him, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I'm _not_ more experienced. Like, I'm exactly the same amount of inexperienced today as I was then."

"That's not true. Just last month, there was that lad in New York—"

"I mean, I've _tried_ ," Harry snaps. He wraps his arms tighter around himself. "But every time all I could think about was you. And I knew I should still just do it, just try to get over you."

Louis stares at him. If Harry's saying what it sounds like, it means that the last time he's been with anyone was before The X Factor. It would mean that Harry's exchanged a few handjobs and given a few blowjobs to that boy who was in his year in school, but that he's never even had one in return. From anyone.

"But I couldn't make myself," Harry finishes.

"You never have to do anything you don't want to," Louis tells him. "Never."

Harry's giving him an odd look. "You know, I even tried with Nick once—"

"What?" Louis demands. Nick Grimshaw must be older than he is. He most certainly looks it.

Harry bites his lip. "He told me I had to ask him again when I was sober and then I pretended I didn't remember."

Louis exhales a long breath and starts to say, "Harry—"

"So," Harry finishes in a rush. "If I was too _inexperienced_ for you when I was sixteen, Lou, then I'm still too inexperienced for you, alright?"

Louis looks at him, devastated at the insecurity in Harry's voice, the way he's hunched over, arms wrapped around himself, looking small and so _young_ —

"Wait. Lou. Is something burning?"

Louis blinks.

 

 

"I haven't been with anyone but you since 2010," Louis blurts out across the table.

Harry frowns over the forkful of lumpy mash in his hand. "What?"

"In ten years, it's only been you." Louis offers him a half-hearted smile and then pokes at the charred mound of chicken in front of him. Gooey mozzarella oozes out. At least that part doesn't appear to be burnt.

"Why?"

"Well, I reckon I never truly thought we were over." He thinks about all the rings Harry had never taken off. Even two years later, in 2018, he could still find them in every grainy pap photo, every shaky concert video. "It never felt real that we weren't together. And, I don't know." He meets Harry's wide green eyes with a shrug. "You're just fucking hard to compare to, darling."

"You mean, even Joe — you and him really never...?"

Louis barks out a surprised laugh. "You can't honestly still think—"

"Sorry," Harry interrupts, setting his fork down with a clatter. "Sorry. I know m'being an idiot." He pinches his bottom lip between his fingers. "A jealous idiot. But also I wanted something better for you, you know. I didn't know everything, but I still knew you deserved better than a fake relationship."

Louis looks at him for a long moment, then clears his throat. "About you not being experienced, though, Hazza. That's not what I meant."

"Well, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what you _said_ ," Harry mutters.

"Okay," Louis concedes. "But I just wanted you to have a chance. Be able to live your life without me holding you back."

"Holding me back?"

"But. Fuck, Hazza, darling. If you want me, I want you exactly the way you are." Louis spreads his hands. "You have nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

Harry bites his lip.

"And if you ever want — just tell me what you want, whenever you want it. I promise I'll want it, too." Louis nudges his foot under the table. "Though it's been longer for me than for you, hasn't it? I'm proper out of practice, love. Reckon I've forgot what goes where."

Harry ducks his eyes down but Louis can make out the hint of a dimple in his cheek. "I kind of doubt that, Lou."

"Well, you deserve to be worshipped and it's a fucking tragedy if no one's ever—" Louis gets sight of the bite of charred chicken on Harry's fork and wrinkles his nose. "Hazza, this dinner's proper shit."

Harry blinks. "No, Lou, it's great."

"It's actually worse than last time. I didn't even think that was possible." He jumps up from his chair to look for his phone. "I'll order something in, babe."

"It's fine."

"Love, I'd rather not actually risk poisoning you. Give me this."

But when Louis reaches for his plate, Harry stops him with a hand to his wrist.

Louis glances at his lovely, long fingers, then into big green eyes.

"We could go out if you'd prefer?" he offers. Because they really could do that now. Sure, not as easily as if they were two random lads no one would mob for selfies and autographs. But they don't have to get the whole restaurant on lockdown, go in through separate entrances and give their waitress an NDA just to share a meal.

Hell, their team might even be happy for them to make another public appearance. Fans have seemed to like following their developing affair online. The other day, Louis had even been lectured about the wasted opportunity of going ice skating in private.

"No, um." Harry rubs his thumb over the inside of Louis' wrist. "If you want — you could." He licks his lips. "You could show me now if you want."

 

 

Louis has four candles lit and is flicking his lighter for the fifth when Harry starts sneezing.

A few minutes later, when he finds him in the bathroom off the hallway, he protests, "I was trying to be romantic."

Harry blows his nose again. "I like scented candles."

"See? You like scented candles," Louis says. He kisses the back of Harry's neck.

"Sorry m'like gross now," Harry says.

"You're never that." Louis strokes down his sides and drags his teeth lightly over the side of his neck.

Harry inhales sharply. "Do you still want—"

"If _you_ still want," Louis says. "Wouldn't blame you for having second thoughts about a lad who tried to give you food poisoning and an allergic reaction all in one night."

"The night's still young," Harry says.

"Precisely, babe, think what else I could get up to."

Harry giggles.

"Let's go to your room, then," Louis says, tugging him back when he tries to head the opposite direction. "That one's still probably filled with poisonous fumes."

But Harry stops, refusing to let Louis redirect him.

"Hazza?" he glances back at him.

"That's not my room."

Louis looks up and down the hallway. "Er, correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly certain—"

"I don't have a room," Harry interrupts.

Louis turns to fully look at him. "What?"

"It's the guest room."

"I told you it was yours if you wanted it," Louis reminds him.

"Well, I don't want it." Harry crosses his arms.

Louis hesitates. "I don't really know what you're saying, love."

"Did I have a separate room before?" Harry asks.

"A separate room?"

"And not just a room. Did we have separate houses then, too?"

Louis nods. "Yeah, we did."

Harry looks like that wasn't the answer he was expecting.

"We had a ridiculous number of houses, honestly. Probably more than any two people should ever be allowed to own. And, no, not a single one of them belonged to the both of us."

"Why not, though?" Harry insists.

Louis offers him a wry shrug. "Reckon that's what happens when you have too much money and not enough freedom."

"I don't understand."

"Good." 

"But—"

Louis presses a finger over his lips to interrupt him. "Hazza, I don't want you to _ever_ understand."

Harry looks at him for a moment, and then his expression crumples.

"Fuck, Lou, I'm sorry." He looks away. "God, you're probably regretting not waiting for me to grow up a bit more after all. I'm being a twat."

"You say that like you think it's something you're going to grow out of."

"Hey." Harry frowns.

Louis watches him for a long moment. "But what's wrong, babe?"

"Nothing."

"You don't like the room?" he asks, poking his shoulder. "The house? I'm not attached. We can leave tonight never come back. Rent out a luxury hotel in London if you want. Still got that too much money problem, don't we?"

"It's when I knew I was going to lose you," Harry blurts out.

Louis stills. "What?"

"It's when I knew — No." Harry looks away. "I knew already. I just didn't really believe it, I guess. So I kept being a brat about it. But then you left."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, we all left Princess Park. But _you_ left and you bought this house and that's when I knew I'd lost you." He wipes his eyes. "Or maybe just when I realized I'd never really had you."

"You _always_ had me, though." Louis steps closer to him.

"Everyone was saying I should get my own place, so I did," Harry continues.

He'd dawdled in doing it, and when he had, it ended up being the same house he had last time.

And, as far as Louis knows, it still contains exactly as much furniture as it ever did back then. Which is to say, not even a bed to sleep on. When they were home in England, he'd spent time at Nick's, on the others' sofas, and even tried commuting from his mum's a few times, before finally ending up at Louis'.

"You came here," Louis reminds him. That first night, after weeks apart, Harry had shown up on his doorstep, red eyes, tear-stained cheeks, refusing to say what was wrong, had just apologized over and over.

"I mean, I tried to stay away—"

"I never wanted you to."

"— But I was homesick."

Louis shakes his head helplessly.

That night had been the first and only time they'd shared a bed since Louis had woken up in Harry's bunk in 2010.

Louis had hugged him tight all night, wishing desperately to know what was wrong and how to make it better.

The next morning, Harry had made him eggs on toast and apologized again and Louis hadn't known what to say, except that Harry could always stay there.

They'd flown back to North America the next day to finish their tour but when they came back, Harry had moved into one of the extra bedrooms.

"And all I wanted was to just be your friend and be near you and cook you breakfast and—" Harry continues. He bites his lip. "And not lose you completely."

"Fuck, darling." Louis closes the distance between them, and takes Harry's face in his hands. "My darling. You're breaking me fucking heart here." 

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbles.

"No, _I'm_ sorry. Jesus." Louis kisses him. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

"It's not." He presses their foreheads together. "Look, I know this isn't fair to ask. But will you do me a favour?"

"What?"

"When you think about everything that's happened these past couple of years, just try to remember there's something you didn't know."

"There were a lot of things I didn't know," Harry says quietly.

"It was really just one."

Harry pulls back enough to frown at him. "What was it?"

Louis reaches up to tuck a stray curl behind Harry's ear. "That the boy you were in love with is a bloody idiot."

 

 

They kiss. They kiss and Louis pushes Harry gently down to sit on the bed.

Harry's clothes still fill the wardrobe here and his shoes are lined up against the wall, but the bed's neatly made, and hasn't been used in over a month.

Harry breaks the kiss just long enough to rip his own t-shirt off and then he tugs Louis down into his lap.

Louis kisses him again as he runs his hands down the toned planes of his body, feeling his abs contract under his touch.

"Lou—" Harry whispers.

"Yes?" Louis asks. "What do you want, darling?" 

He scratches at where the line of hair on Harry's stomach meets the waist of his jeans and he feels him inhale sharply against him.

"Please, Lou."

"Shh." Louis murmurs, and he tries to give him a soothing kiss, but his own hands are actually shaking as he reaches for the button of his jeans. "Harry, fuck, I—"

"What's wrong?"

Harry pulls back but Louis shakes his head.

"Nothing. Can't wait to get my hands on you." He gives him a kiss and tugs at the waistband of his jeans. "Is this alright?"

"Yes," Harry says quickly. "Please."

"Scoot back, love, like that, yeah—" Louis fumbles open the button and unzips Harry's jeans. 

He pulls them down far enough to see his cock pushing, thick and hard, at the cotton of his pants. Louis' chest tightens.

There's a tremor in his hands as he delicately lifts the waistband of his boxers and pulls down it over and around where his cock springs up thick and flushed and already _leaking_.

He licks his lips. "Harry—"

Harry scrabbles to kick off his pants, saying "Come here, come here" as he drags Louis back down onto the bed with him.

 

[January 2013, Tokyo]

"Oh my god." Harry drops their luggage and claps a hand over his mouth, turning around to take in the room. "Oh my god."

Louis smirks at him. "Like it?"

It's just over a week since the night with the failed chicken and parma ham. They've flown to Ghana and back, got footage from every angles of a tearful Harry and Zayn at the orphanage, stopped in London just long enough for a few exhausting tour rehearsals before getting back on a plane to Japan.

"Do I _like_ it?" Harry repeats. "Lou, did you bring me to a—" He lowers his voice to a whisper. "Sex hotel?"

"No, _jesus_. Get your mind out of the gutter, babe." Louis frowns at him disapprovingly. "This isn't a sex hotel."

Harry glances at the bed and raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure? Because it sort of looks like it might be."

"It's a _love_ hotel," Louis interrupts. "One of Tokyo's finest."

"A love hotel," Harry repeats.

" _Yes_ ," Louis says. He gestures to one side. "There's karaoke, a sauna, a hot tub, and a—"

"Giant heart-shaped vibrating bed?" Harry finishes. "Wait. Did you say karaoke?"

Louis nods to the electronics set up next to the wall-size fish tank with cartoon fish swimming among heart-shaped bubbles.

"Oh my god, Lou." Harry's grinning wide, spinning back to look at him.

"Will it do then? Because it's all ours for the next—" Louis glances at his phone. "Ten hours and forty-five minutes."

"That's very specific."

"Well, you have to rent it by the hour," Louis says. At Harry's raised eyebrows he says haughtily, "Like any reputable _love_ hotel."

"So you've been here before?"

"I'm not saying I haven't frequented my fair share of East Asian love hotels, but — Stop laughing."

"M'not."

Louis pokes at his dimple. "But, no, haven't been to this particular one." 

On their first trip to Japan eight years ago, Harry had read about them in his little travel book and then they'd all proceeded to ask more questions than their handlers were comfortable with their guide answering.

Not that those handlers would be all that comfortable with knowing where he and Harry are right now. But that's a problem for tomorrow.

"Right." Harry laughs, eyes twinkling. He looks around the room again and says, "Oh my god. This is the best." He takes a turn around the room, grinning widely, and then turns back to Louis. "Lou, can you fuck me?"

Louis chokes. "What?"

Harry bites his lip. "I mean, if you want to. If that's all right."

"Of course it's—" Louis shoves the door shut behind them. "Of course it's all right."

They've barely had time for anything. They've had time for kisses, of course. Blowjobs. Louis got to finger him in a first class loo about a mile in the air over eastern Europe.

"Wait," Harry stops. "I changed my mind."

"Alright?" Louis says faintly.

"This is a love hotel." He gestures around the room. "You should make love to me."

 

 

He lays Harry out on the bed belly down, and rakes his eyes over the dip of his back, the curve of his bum, down to where his thighs are so lovely and soft and biteable that Louis takes a bite.

"Lou," Harry whines, digging his toes into the hearts of the bedspread.

"So beautiful," Louis murmurs. He scoots up to get his hands on the peachy curve of his arse. And then he parts the cheeks, mouth going dry as he stares down. "Jesus."

Harry tries to twist around. "What?"

"You're just looking at the luckiest man in the world right here," Louis tells him, unable to take his eyes off this boy's beautiful arse. "Any form you come in, darling, your body is a fucking paradise."

"Lou." Harry squirms.

"Yeah. Yeah, babe, just—" He finally takes his eyes off Harry long enough to look around them on the bed. "Pass me the lube, will you?"

 

 

Louis fingers Harry until he's whining and begging and — he worries — close to coming just from rutting against the heart-shaped bedspread. 

_Louis_ is dangerously close to coming just from watching him.

"Hazza, look, here." He squeezes Harry's arse once he gets him flipped over and then grabs for a pillow and stuffs it under his hips. "Now, lift your leg like that here — yeah. Perfect." He scoots in between Harry's thighs and leans down to give him a dirty, wet kiss, before pulling back again.

"Lou—"

"Alright?"

"Yes." Harry licks his lips, looking up at him with big green eyes, pupils huge. "Please fuck me, though."

Louis chokes out a small laugh as he reaches for the lube. "Thought we were making love, darling."

"You said we could do both." Harry draws his lower lip between this teeth.

"Did I?" Louis says distractedly.

His hands are trembling just a little as he slicks up his own cock. When he glances back up it's to the sight of Harry's wide eyes. He looks back down. 

"Sorry, shit. Just habit, I'll get a rubber if you like." Wait. Does he even have a condom? He has plenty of lube, but— "Do you have one? The hotel has to, right? It's a bloody sex hotel—"

Louis is about to officially win the award for shittiest boyfriend ever here.

"Lou."

He feels a hand squeeze his shoulder and glances up to see Harry smiling softly down at him.

"It's a love hotel," Harry says softly.

Louis blinks up at him. "Right?"

"Not a sex hotel." Harry rubs up his arm. "And, yeah, Lou, I have some if you want. I know we don't, like, _need_ them—" They're both clean, obviously, with how often their team makes them all get tested. "But I wasn't sure if you'd still want it, anyways."

"Whatever you want, Hazza. It was really just habit, love. You didn't used to want—" He takes a deep breath, aware he's still babbling like a nervous teenager. He's never been able to keep any semblance of composure around this boy. It's why he's been giving them away for years. "Shit, I really don't mind a rubber. I'd probably last longer. I'm on the edge already just touching you."

"Lou." Harry tugs him down and kisses him. Softly, and then more deeply, and Louis suddenly feels like he can breathe again. "Can we do it like this? Please?"

Louis nods dumbly.

"God, Lou, I want you so much it hurts," Harry says.

"Yeah, me too," Louis whispers, and kisses him again. "Me, too."

 

 

[Summer 2013, some fucking stadium in some fucking country, who fucking cares—]

Louis clutches the table he's bent over for dear life. "Harry—"

He feels the vibrations of Harry's murmured response without actually hearing him.

"I need to come, Hazza. Fuck." Somewhere far away a crowd is roaring out cheers.

Harry pulls back with a wet slurp. Jesus Christ.

"Are you close?"

Is. He. Close.

"Of course I'm fucking close!" he exclaims. "I've _been_ close—"

"Good," Harry murmurs. And then he just tightens his grip on his arse, spreading Louis further apart before diving back in, deeper this time, wet tongue thrusting into him and —

Louis might cry. He might actually cry.

He might already be crying.

And that would serve Harry right. Then Lou can fix his makeup while Harry explains to Paul and the other boys and twenty-three thousand fans that they're late because Louis had refused to let Harry blow him and end up hoarse right before they went on-stage and Harry had only agreed to settle for doing this instead if Louis wouldn't use his own hands to jack himself off.

But never did Louis agree that Harry wouldn't use _his_ hands to get him off.

He tries to explain this, but it just comes out as a broken, " _Fuck you_."

Harry's murmured agreement is torture. Actual fucking torture.

Louis again attempts to reach for his own aching, dripping, so-hard-it-fucking- _hurts_ cock —

— and gets his hand slapped away.

Again.

He bites his own arm and squeezes his eyes shut until all he can see is white. All he can hear is screaming and he doesn't even know if it's coming from the distant arena or his own fucking throat.

 

 

[November 2013, London]

"We're not breaking up."

Louis sighs.

"You're not breaking up with me." Harry folds his arms over his chest. "You can't. Not unless I agree to it."

"Alright?" Louis tries.

"And I don't agree."

The thing is, they're still signed to Syco, their management is still Modest, their PR is still HJPR.

The only thing that's _actually_ different is that he and Harry aren't in the closet.

It's 2013 and every word in their contracts reads the same as it did last time it was 2013.

The image clauses in their contracts are, word-for-word, the same as they've always been.

So that means that when they're asked to stay behind after their planning meeting for 1D Day and told they need to break up for publicity —

"You didn't even argue, Lou," Harry says.

The way his voice cracks makes Louis turn around.

"Hazza—" he tries again.

"You didn't even argue. And I know you're used to it, I know this is probably nothing for you—"

"It's not nothing," Louis tells him quietly.

"But you always argue. With everything. And I just thought — I thought things were different this time," Harry tells him, wiping his eyes. "I thought they were supposed to be, at least. But you didn't even argue and—"

" _Harry_ ," Louis cuts him off. "Do you know what I did every day — every single day — for years?"

"What?"

Louis wipes a stray tear from his cheek and gives him a bittersweet smile. "I argued."

Harry shakes his head.

"I argued and I lost and I only made things worse for the both of us," Louis tells him. "Over and over again."

"Lou," Harry starts.

"Baby, you know what's different this time?" Louis steps in closer.

Harry shakes his head again.

"We're not going to argue," Louis says. "We're going to win."

 

 

"You want to buy me a ring?" Harry asks once he finally lets Louis drag him inside the shop.

Louis nods.

"A diamond ring?"

Louis glances around. "I reckoned it could be something a bit more ambiguous. Like a promise ring or summat. Obvious enough to show up in the photos."

"So you don't want to buy me a diamond ring?" Harry clarifies.

"I—" Louis falters. "Did you _want_ a diamond ring?"

"It seems only fair," Harry huffs. "I got you a diamond one. Why can't I have one, too?"

Louis stares at him. "You bought me a—"

"A diamond ring. Yes, Lou."

"What—"

"No." Harry crosses his arms over his chest. "I got a matching tattoo _hours_ after the first time we even kissed. You didn't freak out about that, so you don't get to be freaked out about this. Not when you've literally been in a relationship with me for six—"

Louis claps a hand over his mouth and drags him out of the shop before he can finish that thought.

"Six years," Harry finishes once he pushes Louis' hand away.

Louis squints at him in the grey mid-day sun.

"What?" Harry asks, starting to get fidgety.

"I—" Louis licks his lips. "I've had a ring for you since 2011."

"For two years?"

"The other 2011."

Harry frowns. "You didn't tell me we were engaged."

"Well, reckoned giving my seventeen-year-old boyfriend a diamond ring when we'd only been dating six months might scare him off."

"So you just never did?" Harry looks devastated. "It wouldn't have. I promise it wouldn't have."

"No, it probably wouldn't have." Louis sighs. "But I was an idiot of a 19-year-old, what did I know? Instead I gave you all sorts of other rings, reckoned I'd work my way up to that one." He looks down the busy road. "But it didn't quite work out that way, did it?"

"Lou," Harry says softly, touching his shoulder. Louis glances at his hand. He has a watch on his wrist, but his hands are bare of any other jewellry.

"I've only bought you one ring this time," Louis tells him.

Harry frowns.

"I'll get you more," he promises. "Buy you as many rings as will fit on your gorgeous fingers. Double up if you need to. I just didn't want this one to be lost in the shuffle again."

Harry stares at him. "Lou, are you talking about the same kind of ring I am?"

"What?" Louis laughs. "Do you think I wouldn't know you'd want the biggest bloody diamond I could pay for?"

"You got me a diamond ring?"

"Six months after we got together, too," Louis says, with a rueful smile. "I'm the same bloody optimist I always was, turns out. Budget was a bit bigger this time, though. So the diamond is, too."

"Can I see?"

"No you can't _see_." Louis pokes him in the shoulder. "You can see when I propose. But only if you say yes."

"You're supposed to show me the ring before I give my answer," Harry tells him primly.

"Oi, who's the one doing the proposing here? I make the rules."

"Not if I propose first," Harry reminds him. "I have a diamond, too. I could."

"You could," Louis says softly.

Harry takes his hand and squeezes it. "We're gonna win this time, Lou."

 

 

Two weeks later, the day before Midnight Memories drops, The Sun announces the Larry Stylinson breakup with a gleeful front-page "Who's Lennon and Who's Yoko?"

Two hours later, TMZ publishes same-day photos of them walking hand-in-hand in LA, with zoomed-in shots of the diamonds on both their ring fingers.

Social media speculation on the band's imminent break-up quickly turns to debate about why Harry's ring is so much bigger.


End file.
